NIGHT 251
quickly and slipped a wreath of roses round his neck.
Then he hastened towards us, embarrassed by the
thought that he had kept us waiting for our meed
of flowers.
All kowtows and smiles, he backed up a ram-
shackle staircase leading directly from the street on
to his roof. His look confessed dismay that for the
occasion he had nothing better to offer than these
broken steps and crumbling walls, of which his
open, outstretched hands seemed to be making us
free. He had covered his dusty terrace with large
carpets and set out three chairs, or thrones, one
for the Maharaja, two for us. His servants were
humbly crouching in a corner, clasping bottles of
whisky and piles of cakes with which, as soon as
we were seated, he served us with his own hands.
The terrace was very dark; the street it over-
looked still darker. I saw it less than felt its
presence close at hand below the balcony, dense
with a surging crowd. A burst of cheering for the
Maharaja welled up from the darkness, and other
cheers broke out just opposite ; evidently there were
people posted on the house-tops in front. There
were eddies of laughter, fitful cries—an atmosphere of
tense expectancy. Something was " in the air " ;
the feverish suspense that, in a theatre, precedes the
rising of the curtain.
Suddenly there was a hiss, a splutter, and a flame
leaped from an extended fist. A ball of fire zoomed
up the sky and, bursting, scattered in a golden
shower. And, with the first rocket, linked to its
ascent, the curtain of the night rolled up into the
vaulted darkness, discovering the stage all set.
It was a dfoor of a gala at the Opera that opened
out to our dazzled eyes. The street served as a
stage, the house-fronts as proscenium, while an